Slow Burn
by Ludi
Summary: Remy thinks Rogue has been dead for the past two years, but when he discovers she isn't during a mission for Nathaniel Essex, his world turns upside down. Needless to say, more than just sparks fly when you have one night to catch up on the past - and especially when you find out that she can finally touch. Romy, HoC universe. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Marvel's. Not mine.

 **Rating:** Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

 **Author note:** By popular demand, here is chapter 5 ( _Mission_ ) and 6 ( _Stolen_ ) of _House of Cards,_ told from Gambit's perspective. Just warning y'all... this will get smutty after this chapter. I have been reliably informed (by my lovely beta, **jpraner** ) that this is acceptable, so what the hell, I will post it, sex and all. LOL.

After this there will probably be a couple more vignettes from the HoC universe to post... Maybe something longer, (such as a long epilogue) although I won't promise anything, cos I don't really know where I'm going with it anymore. My interest and creative juices have now been totally eaten up by a new Romy fic I'm writing in a totally new AU, one that came out of nowhere and bludgeoned me round the head a bit. In the meantime, enjoy this, and I'll get the new one out soonish.

Many thanks as always to all my lovely readers, reviews, followers and other friends in Romy-dom; and a special shout-out to **jpraner** for her edits, suggestions, and putting up with me. ;)

x

-oOo-

* * *

 **Slow Burn**

Sinister was just finishing up a meeting with the Marauders when he finally walked in to work, more than 45 minutes late.

He was skating the line of insubordination and he knew it, so he stood at the back by the door and caught his breath, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip, still tingling with the honeybee sting of Olivia's kiss.

There wasn't much more he had known about her than her name – not that things like that really mattered. Especially not when you'd spent the night drinking in some swanky bar and were fucking horny.

By the time he'd been onto his tenth drink the women had all started to look the same to him, just like the bottom of every glass had started to look like the meaningless, bottomless pit he was trying to avoid.

Olivia had just been the first one to invite him up to her room.

Remy exhaled and left last night where it was. He cast his gaze over Sinister's little audience, men and women who hadn't even bothered to look up when he'd entered, knowing his occasional habits, knowing he was allowed them.

He knew the faces of all the people in that room, but he knew none of their names. The names they wore were all labels, just like Gambit was the one he wore: Sabretooth, Harpoon, Arclight, Riptide, Scalphunter, Vertigo… Names that told him just enough to tell him nothing. Names that marked out their mutant powers and little else.

"Ah, LeBeau," Sinister greeted him with that subtly mocking tone he always used. "How nice of you to drop by. I was beginning to wonder whether you'd bother showing up at all."

He didn't waste another second on his young protégé, moving back to his gathered team of heavies, saying: "I trust you all know what your orders are now. Any questions, and we will discuss them later. I have other business to attend to now."

There was no reply from his audience. One by one the Marauders stood and filtered out of the room, eyeing Remy with ambivalence as they walked past.

He was different to them, a cut above them.

It wasn't just that he was mostly given the covert ops. It was something else and he wasn't quite sure what.

"Gambit," Sinister beckoned him from the back of the room once everyone had filed out, "come."

Remy did so.

He walked up to the short dais where Essex's desk was, to the row of computer monitors that flickered behind it with a bluish light. Essex was standing, and so he did not venture giving himself the luxury of sitting down in the nearby leather swing chair. He stood before his paymaster and waited.

"I take it," Essex addressed him sarcastically, "that you were busying yourself with pleasure rather than business last night?"

Remy smirked, shrugged.

"Yeah. So? 'Bus'ness' happened to wind up early last night."

Essex's smile was cold, mirthless.

"Ah. Then you have the data?"

"Of course."

He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of the jacket and took out a thin sliver of chip. Then he laid it on the desk and slid it over to Sinister who picked it up and examined it briefly.

"Excellent," was all he said. He turned to the computer interface at his right hand, inserted the chip. The monitors flickered into life and Remy looked up. It was the schematics of a building; a Sentinel parts factory in Manhattan.

"There it is," Sinister observed calmly, homing in on what appeared to be an underground bunker. "That is where our little prize will be."

Remy was silent, studying the 3D blueprints carefully. This place was, after all, where his next job was going to be that very night. Go in, bust out a mutant, get out again. That was all he was really, nothing more than a glorified courier. If the Marauders had known, they probably would've laughed.

He tilted his head, seeing the perfect access route. If he could get in under the floors… Or through the garbage chute…

"I still don't get why dey're keepin' mutants in a Sentinel parts factory," he commented, and Essex levelled him a stare that clearly suggested he was stupid.

"What else could they be but test subjects, LeBeau?" he retorted coldly. "What better to test out the effectiveness of your prize killing machine than on a handful on mutants, ready on tap?"

"Hmph," Remy grunted his begrudging assent. "I guess. Figured they'd have those at de end of de actual assembly line. But yeah. I s'ppose it'd make sense t' test out de parts before you assemble them."

"As well as after, as the case may be," Sinister grimaced. He pressed a nearby touchpad and the monitor switched to a screen Gambit knew well. It was a database – the Cerebro Files.

It was the first thing he'd ever stolen from the X-Men.

Essex was scrolling through the long list of names deliberately.

There were many on the list who were marked as dead or missing. There were even more who were marked as incarcerated. It was one of these that Essex finally stopped on.

 _STARSMORE, JONOTHON, A.K.A. CHAMBER_.

A tap on the name, and the face popped up on the screen, a face obscured by a thick, black scarf across the lower mouth.

Remy remembered him. One of the kids at the Massachusetts Academy. He'd blasted half his face off when he'd first manifested his powers.

It seemed that first manifesting one's powers was often a dangerous business for mutants.

"And dat's de guy I need to bring in, huh?" he asked.

Sinister nodded.

"I would take extra care with this one," he warned Remy witheringly. "His powers are… unstable, to say the least."

"Heh. Shouldn't be a problem as long as he's wearin' his collar…"

"Of course. Just a 'friendly' warning, LeBeau. I would rather save you the inconvenience of an altercation. Believe it or not, I would also rather you returned to me safely and in one piece." The glance Sinister shot him was almost chilling. "Do you need a printout?"

" _Non_. I got it." He tapped the side of his forehead. "But email me a copy of de blueprints anyways. I'll study them before I move in tonight. Always best t' set up a couple of escape routes…"

"Indeed." Sinister's lip curled. "One must always be prepared for the unexpected."

-oOo-

The truth was, it wasn't often that anything unexpected ever came his way anymore.

By nature Remy was thorough, and every mission like this he treated as a job.

Espionage wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was deadly boring for a start.

Everything had to be meticulously covered beforehand, and that meant doing your homework. It meant hours of boring research, memorisation of facts, scrupulous planning ahead for every conceivable outcome. It meant getting yourself into a certain psychological zone. It meant being prepared to change your plan at any given moment.

Remy hung upside down from the edge of the rooftop and charged the edges of the vent grate.

Honestly, when it came down to it, none of this was like the shit you saw on James Bond.

 _James Bond_ , Remy thought wryly to himself as he charged the final few inches of grate. _What a fuckin' idiot._

Because the whole point of this kind of job was not to be seen in the first place. It was all about stealth, not going in and causing a hoohah. And as for all those women… Well, fucking on the job was always a huge mistake, unless it happened to be a _part_ of the job. Stuff like that was best left to after hours.

Remy tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, his eyes narrowed with concentration. He reached out, put his hands on each end of the grate, and detonated the charge as softly and quietly as he could. The grate popped out, into his hands. He swung back onto the roof and placed the grate carefully down onto the gravel. Then he swung right back over and into the ventilation shaft.

Ten minutes later and he was out the other side, several floors down and halfway across the building. The only foolproof way of getting down to the basement was through one of the garbage chutes, and the safest one was on this level.

It was safer because there were no kinks in it that he was going to get trapped in – it was a straight slide all the way down.

Remy was about to head in the direction of the chute when he heard footsteps just round the nearest corner.

His reaction was pure instinct – barely a few seconds later and he had sprung back into the ventilation shaft, missing the guard turning the corner by mere moments.

Remy looked down through the grating as the guard walked right on by, gritting his teeth against the adrenaline of his near escape.

 _Fuck. I thought I had their patrol figured. Guess it must be a new shift kickin' in. Just my fuckin' luck._

The worst thing about it was, he'd have to stay up here and go right back to square one. Scope out their pattern, and re-evaluate how he was going to work around it.

He sighed, resigning himself to another indeterminable stretch of mind-numbing boredom.

Fifteen minutes passed before the next guard passed down below him; then another 15 minutes before the first guard returned.

 _Okay, so dere's two of 'em. Fifteen minute patrols. Plenty of time to get where I need to. And dey call dis security?_

He smirked to himself.

He shifted forward to open the grate again and jump out, when he heard the sound of footsteps coming back down the corridor.

Remy stiffened, lay flat again.

This was unexpected… He knew for a fact that that guard should be heading to the other side of the wing right now, and if he wasn't that could only mean one of two things – either that the security was better than he'd first estimated, or that something unusual was going down tonight. Either way, it meant that this was going to be a tougher assignment than he'd first thought.

 _Shit. Now I gotta figure out how t' work round dis_ …

He peered down through the grate as the footsteps drew nearer, as the guard finally came into view.

It wasn't the same guard.

It wasn't even a man.

It was a woman.

He could tell from the tall, willowy figure, the slight roll of the hips as she walked.

She paused right in his line of sight, turned slightly, the line of her profile coming into view, and surveyed her surroundings.

 _Rogue._

It was _Rogue_.

He froze.

The world stopped.

And for a split second that lasted forever he forgot how to breathe.

For a moment he thought he was dreaming, or even that something had gone wrong with his brain. Hell, maybe he'd dropped some acid and was on some weird sort of trip. It wasn't outside the realms of possibility.

But she turned again, facing him almost directly, and he knew he wasn't dreaming.

The delicate nose, the blush of her lips, the pallor of her skin and the green of her eyes. The white streak in her cinnamon-coloured hair.

Almost as soon as it'd sunk in she turned away from him, began walking again. A few moments more and she was completely out of his sight.

He lay there in the ensuing silence, stunned, motionless.

The only thing that was moving was his heart, and it was beating faster than Quicksilver could run.

 _What de fuck?_ was the first thought he shot out. _She's dead… …_

But he didn't _know_ that. He'd only ever _assumed_ it. He'd assumed it because he'd thought nobody could've got out of that mansion alive – he'd just barely managed to do so himself after all. Sinister's database had listed her as 'missing'. And he'd always just figured that her body had been too badly maimed, burnt or destroyed to be identified.

But there she was, walking down there right underneath him, unmistakably, undeniably Rogue.

 _I must be dreamin'… I haveta be dreamin'…_

But his senses were screaming at him that he wasn't.

He moved then, quietly, carefully removed the grate, and scrambled out through the hole once more. He dropped down into the corridor, landing without even a trace of a sound, and, his mission now entirely forgotten, he followed the way she had disappeared.

-oOo-

He caught sight of her again on the outside of the building, and he hid in the shadows as he watched her pause at the bottom of a maintenance ladder that led up to the roof.

She stood a long moment, touched her forehead as if pained, and then, quickly, quietly, swung up onto the rungs.

He didn't follow.

He could figure out what she was going to do, and he preoccupied himself with trying to work out whether he was dreaming or not.

He watched her climb up the ladder, instinctively matching every movement she made to his memories of her.

Her body was thinner under the black bodysuit than he remembered it, and the way she moved was more muted, less brash. But the _shape_ of her… the elegant architecture of her legs and her arms, the nipped in waist, the flare of her hips, the perfect sculpt of her backside… they were all aspects of her that he'd studied _very_ thoroughly during his time back at the mansion, and heaven be damned, they were all exactly as he remembered them.

And there was that white streak in her hair again, glimmering in the moonlight.

No mistaking _that_.

He licked his lips unconsciously as she disappeared over and onto the edge of the roof, and, as soon as she was out of sight, he slipped out of his hiding place and followed.

He stopped when he got to the bottom of the ladder.

He didn't know what the hell he thought he had to gain in seeking out a meeting with her. This was a waste of time, and he suddenly remembered, with a twinge of frustration, that he had a mission to fulfil. He couldn't touch her. Couldn't kiss her. Couldn't fuck her.

 _And what'm I gonna say t' her anyways? "Hey, I thought you were dead, and I was jes' hangin' round here when you showed up, d'ya wanna talk? Go for a coffee? Head back to my place? Watch a porno together?"_

He huffed a bit to himself.

No matter which way he thought about it, it could only turn out sounding ludicrous.

He half-considered heading back towards the basement, getting Chamber and getting the fuck out; but for some reason he didn't.

He looked across the side of the building and noticed a couple of grimy, full-sized windows halfway down. He walked over to them, looked in through the nearest one and squinted. The glass was dirty enough to obscure his view, and he wiped a circular gap with the cuff of his coat and peered in with eyes that could see in the dark.

It was a warehouse. Crates of Sentinel parts neatly stacked and labelled, here, there, everywhere. He glanced up, towards the ceiling. There was no sign of her, but he was pretty sure there would be, soon.

He turned away, pressed his back against the wall.

 _Fuck, LeBeau. Get y'self back down into dat basement now and grab your fuckin' paycheck_.

He swivelled back round to the window, and this time she was there. She dove right down from the roof to the nearest pile of crates, supple as a swallow.

It reminded him of all the nights he'd spent fantasising about her showing him just how fucking supple she could be.

 _Merde_.

He couldn't stop watching her after that, voracious as a voyeur and just as unrepentant.

Not even when he saw her plant her fancy bombs could he look away, not even when it was finally confirmed what she was going to do.

 _She gonna blow dis fuckin' place t' hell…_

He was kind of glad he hadn't headed back to the basement now. Because once those bombs went off and the shit hit the fan, there was no way in hell that he could've got both himself _and_ Chamber out of this place without running up against New York's finest – not to mention a Sentinel or two.

He chose to back away then, knowing that this was _not_ going to be a good place to be in the next few minutes; but he was surprisingly torn between making his escape and keeping her within his sights.

 _Let dis play out, LeBeau. She's obviously a professional at dis. Stay a while, see what happens. Jes' don't get too close_.

He obeyed his own advice and jogged over to the perimeter fence, vaulting over it with practised grace and the aid of his quarterstaff; but his thoughts made him wonder.

It was clear to him that she was sabotaging the Sentinel assembly line, that this was part of a larger plan to hit Trask where it hurt most; but then who was she working for? Who was bankrolling all this?

He wedged himself in the space between two neighbouring buildings and glanced round from his cover.

The night was still and clear, but he was pretty sure that wasn't going to last long.

 _Where de hell is she? If she don't get out soon, she's gonna be fucked for sure…_

He shifted into a crouching position and peered through the fence, expecting her to launch herself over it any moment now.

But there was still no sign of her.

 _C'mon, chere, what'cha waitin' for? You don' wanna getcha self blown up. I will be really,_ really _fuckin' pissed if you getcha self blown up when I've only just found you again and—_

He never got to finish the thought, because at that very moment the entire wing of the factory exploded.

Remy was on his feet in a second, anxiety rippling through him, and he held himself back in his hiding place with an effort.

It was only then that he noticed her, high-tailing it across the yard towards the perimeter fence with all the glass and the concrete and the rubble of the explosion hot on her tail.

And he had no idea what the hell had taken her so long, but it was a relief to see her alive and fighting, and she ducked, she rolled, she hit the fence head on and if she hadn't been in such serious fucking trouble he would've laughed. As it was, he was simply glad to see her get back onto her feet and scramble over the fence like a bat out of hell.

It was only when she was safely on the other side of the raging inferno that he slipped out of his hiding place, that he followed.

-oOo-

The only problem with an explosion was that it tended to attract all sorts of unwanted attention.

Panicked onlookers, gaping voyeurs, thugs and firefighters, cops and EMT's.

Sentinels.

Remy watched her weave in and out of the mass of heaving bodies, the harried, confused voices of the onlookers drowned out by the din of the ambulances and the fire trucks, the shouts of the firefighters and the paramedics. She didn't stop for any of it, and neither did he. There were several moments when he thought that he had lost her in the crowd, and but for the white streak in her hair – a shimmering beacon amongst the haze of black and orange and grey and red – she probably would have disappeared completely and without a trace.

He kept a fair distance from her, navigating the agitated throng with feline ease, picking her out here, there, a lone figure against the tide, her pace careful, restrained. It was a gait he had never seen from her before. The Rogue he had known with the X-Men had been brash and confident, barrelling into a fight like a tank. Then again, these were different times and for mutants to go around smashing things up usually meant a death sentence.

It was only when the crowds had thinned out a bit that he noticed her stumble. Once, twice, three times in quick succession.

 _She's hurt_ , he thought, unable to prevent a grimace from crossing his face.

She'd been careless, back at the factory. She'd stayed too long at the scene of the crime, she'd almost got caught in her own trap. He sure as hell hoped she hadn't paid too high a price for her mistake. If she was wounded, there wasn't a lot she could do about it out here.

He had trailed her for three or four blocks before she finally ducked into a dingy little alley.

Remy paused as soon as she had gone from his sight. There was another alleyway to his left, and he slipped into it casually, picking up his pace as soon as he was out of sight of the main road. The passage was blocked halfway by a wire fence and he scaled it without thinking, jumping over onto the other side, jogging down to the other end of the building.

He made a quick mental map of his surroundings. The next alley down – that's where she'd be. If he was quick enough, he could head her off.

He walked quickly, pausing only as he got to the corner. The truth was, he wasn't sure if he really _wanted_ to follow her in there.

He didn't even really know _why_ he'd followed her in the first place.

If he went in there right now and startled her, how would she react?

Were they even on the same side anymore? Would she be hostile? Would she even _remember_ him?

(And he was pretty sure that the answer to that would be _yes…_ )

And then what would he even say to her?

Well, if she was wounded he could help see to that. Not that he could touch her to treat a fucking wound, but hey… He could be extra careful. He had his gloves on him. He didn't have any kit or anything, but he had some in that place on the other side of town, that safe house he still used sometimes when the shit hit the fan and he needed to lay low… …

Remy ran his tongue over his lips, chewing on the thought.

Out came his cards and he flipped them deftly between his hands, right, left, left, right.

Maybe he'd turn that corner right now and she'd be gone.

Maybe she'd never been there at all.

Maybe she'd been someone else. Or a dream. Or an apparition.

Sirens were screaming in the distance, and the stench of burning rubber and concrete was in the air.

All his senses told him that if he turned that corner right now, she would be there.

 _And then what?_

The cards paused in his hands.

He was going round in circles now.

Round and round.

The truth of the matter was pretty simple, and that was that it didn't much matter _what_ he said to her.

He just _had_ to know that it was her. Had to look her in the eyes. Had to relive what it _felt_ like to be under her gaze. Had to know whether whatever it was that had existed between them back at the mansion… whether it was still _there_. After all this time, and in this horrible place called _now_.

He pulled in a breath and put away his cards. There wasn't a single other thing he needed to make his decision. The desire to have some sort of resolution between them was more than enough.

He pushed himself off of the wall and he turned that corner.

She was there.

He stood a moment in the entrance to the alleyway, driven to a halt by the sight of her crouching against the wall, his presence wreathed from her by the shadow of the nearby building.

She was preoccupied, her teeth gritted in pain as she finished up tying a bandage round her right arm. It was an intimate moment he had walked in on, a moment he knew instinctively she would not have let him see, and it made him hesitate. It made him hesitate because she was open wide, she was weak and wounded and hurting, and she was _not_ the woman he remembered. The woman he remembered would have patched up her wounds and gone right on brawling. But this woman, this Rogue… Something had gone out of her. All the fight, all the strength. All the sass, all the impudence. What he saw now… he saw an emptiness. A hopelessness. It almost made him feel ashamed to have followed her here, to have spied on her. It almost made him walk away.

Almost.

She still hadn't noticed him, and he watched her get to her feet, lean back against the wall, close her eyes, steady her breathing. He knew then that she was still in pain, and as she turned to pick up her backpack he stepped forward without thinking, on an impulse, he thought, to reach out to her, to help her.

She heard him this time.

With a start she whipped round, and there she was.

 _Rogue_.

A hundred emotions seemed to cross her face in a single split second – shock, recognition, doubt, confusion – many more he couldn't quite put a name to. Her lips were parted with surprise, and if he had ever doubted that this was Rogue, he could doubt no more when he saw her eyes.

Those same green eyes that had held his gaze so often, wide and questioning and as smoky and sad as he remembered.

It was only when those eyes met his for the first time in two long, bitter years that he felt the ground tug away from his feet and his stomach fall right through the bottomless pit that remained.

And whilst he felt it, he wasn't _consciously_ aware of it, and all the bravado and nonchalance that life had taught him quickly took over, making him smile at her like he smiled at every other woman, making him say: "Nice work back there. I guess you beat me t' de punch."

She said nothing. Instead her mouth clamped shut, as though to bite down on words before they tumbled gracelessly out. Her face was thinner than he remembered too, just slightly – the line of her cheekbones a little more angular than his memories of her suggested.

But the greatest difference was in her eyes – eyes that had always been soulful, but that now spoke of deep sorrow and loss.

"How long were you followin' me?" she finally asked – and it was Rogue's voice, speaking in a tone that was pitched low and even – yet there was an accusatory note to it, and there was a suspicion there that he'd never quite heard before back at the mansion. If she'd ever distrusted him back in the past, she had never been afraid to make it known in the most outrageous of ways – from all-out rancour to playful banter. But this was different – a muted mistrust that cut him deeper than anything else she might have said.

For some reason, he ignored it.

"Since way back at de factory." He jabbed a thumb in the vague direction of the explosion. "Got so surprised t' see you, I went ahead and let you take de credit for blowin' up dat shithole. But, chere – while I thoroughly approve of de end result, I gotta tell you y' lack a whole lotta style."

He was joking, bantering with her – and considering the situation he'd found her in, it probably wasn't the best way to go. Her eyes widened at his irreverence, as if she hadn't heard a joke in years and didn't know how to react to one anymore. It took a few more heartbeats for her lips to actually give way to a ghost of a smile, and when she did he was never so glad to see one in all his life.

"Lucky Ah don't care for your brand of style then, Cajun," she remarked coolly – although he could detect a twist of humour to her voice, as she finally turned away from him and began to pack the medical supplies back into her kit. It was enough to make the corner of his own mouth twitch into a lopsided grin. For a few seconds back there he'd been afraid she didn't know how to smile anymore.

He watched her as she went about her task, all the while ignoring him pointedly. It wasn't what women did when in his presence – usually they tried to get his attention, whether subconsciously or not. Rogue had never really played that game with him anyway – in his presence she'd often been nervous, wary that it might open up the opportunity for a lethal touch. But the way she ignored him now was different – less wary than _weary_. Less standoffish than tired. He couldn't quite work it out. By the time she'd finished packing her things away he still hadn't got it figured.

When she turned back to him, it was like she was surprised to see him still there.

For a long moment they stood there, only a few metres away from one another, each one silently appraising the other.

It was only in that moment – one without words or distractions – that he fully accepted that she was real. It was only then, looking into her eyes without either of them flinching or turning away, that he realised something profound.

Two years had passed, the world had turned to shit, and there was a lot he didn't care for or believe in anymore.

But something hadn't changed, and that was the way he felt when he was standing this close to her.

The realisation perturbed him somehow and he broke the suddenly painful silence, said: "Dat cut dere, on your arm… You go to a hospital, dey'll ask too many questions." And before he knew it he was adding quickly, lightly, "I can take you back to my place, fix it up for you if you like."

They both knew what his invitation really meant – he could see it in her eyes. He'd invited her often enough to his room back in the day. It had never been about sex – not entirely anyhow – the fact that they couldn't touch had meant that invitations to his room had taken on a unique complexion when it came to her.

It had meant stuff like _getting to know one another_ , and _talking shit_ , and _spending time alone together_. Kid's stuff, really.

It hadn't meant he hadn't tried it on now and then, because he knew there were ways of messing around without having to touch skin on skin; but she'd rarely let things get very far and most of the time they'd just ended up hanging out.

And that was all he really wanted right now.

Just some time alone with her.

Just an opportunity to reconnect with her, away from the noise and the sirens and the stench of the explosion, from this dank dark alley where the Sentinels were never far behind.

He wanted to relive a little piece of the life he had left behind, the one that she had belonged to.

That was all.

At least, that was what he was telling himself.

"Yah have your own place?" she asked him, and her voice was pointedly neutral, giving the lie to the fact that she was probably feeling exactly the same things he was feeling and trying desperately to hide.

"A safe house o' sorts," he explained nonchalantly. "Don't use it too much. Too dangerous t' stay dere more den a day at a time."

And there was that look on her face again. Eyes wide like he was just throwing surprise after surprise at her. For a split second he thought she might refuse, and when she said "all right," he was almost surprised himself at her assent. He watched on as she bent slightly, picked up her rucksack and hoisted it up over the shoulder of her good arm, thinking, _great, so now whatcha gon' do, LeBeau? Make her some tea and talk about de good ol' times?_ And no sooner had he got that thought out than she did something unexpected, more unexpected than her showing up again at all.

She peeled off her gloves and slipped them into the pockets of her leather jacket.

He'd reacted even before it had sunk in.

"No gloves?" he asked.

Her eyes flickered to his, and she said in a voice that was low, soft: "Ah can control my powers now… Ah can touch."

In a single second _everything_ had changed between them, and it didn't compute, but he knew exactly what it meant.

"Oh," was the only thing he could think of to say.

-oOo-

She could touch.

 _She could touch._

They drove through the city on his bike, her behind him with her arms wrapped round his waist, and he tried not to think about it, he tried not to think about the fact that her small, white hands were clasped right there over his stomach, that her head was resting right there between his shoulder blades[PJDSUA1M48] .

The more he tried not to think about it, the more he could think of nothing else.

The journey to the safe house passed in a haze, a haze of newly reawakened desires pushing dangerously to the surface, desires rendered all the more potent for the fact that now they could be realised in the basest, most fundamental sense.

He didn't like the way they pulsed through his veins, stole at his breath and tugged on his loins.

He didn't like what she did to him, peeled away that finely maintained control he so painstakingly wrought, stripped it slowly away to reveal all the mess, all the intensity of emotion he spent his life hiding.

He didn't like it and he loved it.

He loved the way she pulled at him with just the bare minimum of her presence. The way she unravelled him so effortlessly, the way she teased at him like a ball of thread without even having to say a single word.

What she did to him was what no woman had ever done before with their silvery laughs and their come-hither smiles, with their hungry kisses and their even greedier touches.

What she did to him right there, right then, as they drove through the city on the back of his bike… it was far more titillating, far more exciting than any or all of those things put together.

He mentally counted down the miles to his place, her proximity driving him to the depths of a tortured impatience he hadn't experienced before. Because the fact that she was there at all, the fact that she had accepted his invitation… it could only mean one thing. It could only lead to one conclusion, and he couldn't get to where he needed to go fast enough, he could hardly contain himself with the knowledge of what this all meant. By the time their journey was ended, it was already a given.

He _knew_ he was going to have sex with her; he knew it was inevitable.

-oOo-

 _To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Marvel's. Not mine.

 **Rating:** Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

 **Author note:** Sorry for the delay in getting this out, it was actually meant to be published last Tuesday, but work and study got in the way. I was actually going to edit this way much more, but in the end I didn't have the time or the energy, so I'm just putting it out as is. Hope you enjoy it anyway. Warning for semi-explicit smut. :)

Thanks again to **jpraner** for the invaluable editing, beta-ing, and inspiration.

x

-oOo-

* * *

 **Slow Burn**

He ground the Harley to a halt outside the rundown complex of apartments that housed the tiny safe house that had served him ever since he'd first arrived in New York.

Neither of them said a thing as she stepped down from the bike and he followed. She stood there, looking about her quietly, her body rigid, tense. It confused him. Every signal she was sending told him that she knew exactly why he'd taken her here, that she wanted it too. But there was something else in her, and it was _this_ , it was the way she was standing there radiating this nervous tension. And that was when the thought crossed his mind.

 _Shit. Is she still a—_

Was she still a virgin?

He ran his eyes over her body intently, unable to stop himself.

 _Like fuck she is. Look at her, LeBeau. She's beautiful. Sexy. Desirable. Dere ain't a man alive who wouldn't want her. She could have anyone. Anyone she wanted. She probably has._

Nevertheless the thought made him pause, made him make a quick mental re-calculation, and on an impulse he reached, grasping her injured arm gently and pulling her lightly towards him. The movement allowed him to examine her wound, which he noted was starting to bleed through the bandage; but it also afforded him the opportunity to re-interrogate any signals he may have misread.

His glance flicked to hers and here, under the lights of the apartment buildings around them, he realised that this was the closest he'd been to her in years. It was that closeness that nailed him where he stood, that forced him to remain locked into their shared gaze. He was so close to her he could've counted the eyelashes on her lids if he'd wanted to. He took a breath. She was beautiful. He found he couldn't look away.

He had expected her to shy away from his glance, but instead she met the look without flinching. Nevertheless the colour rose to her cheeks, two faint pinpoints in the darkness of the night that softened the brazen look in her gaze. It was the kind of look she'd given him so often back at the mansion, the awkward brashness of inexperience: but there was something else hidden behind that stare, a kind of wild desperation he hadn't seen before and that almost threw him into a tailspin.

There wasn't a woman alive who'd done this to him.

Made him want. Made him question.

Made him pause and ask her with his eyes:

 _Is dis what you want, chere?_

And still she stared him down, she met his gaze without flinching.

It was answer enough.

He turned aside, dropping her arm as he did so, began to walk towards the apartment block. When he looked back over his shoulder she was still there, looking at him.

"C'mon," he said softly, and only then did he hear her follow.

x

The elevator was out, but then, he couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been.

He led her to the stairs and together they climbed them without saying a word.

His mind was working rabidly, ill-formed thoughts that raced one after the other after the other. He scrambled to contain them, these thoughts that told him he should thank his good fortune in finding her again, that he should question the fact that she was alive at all, that he should protect her with every fibre of his being when he had failed her so spectacularly before, that he should do what came so easily to him and give them the thing they'd both wanted for so long.

It was all this and more that filled his mind, that drove him onwards and strove to hold him back, and when at last they reached the safe house he was almost dizzy with it.

He paused at the door, but not long enough to talk himself out of this being the right time and the right place to do this – he unlocked the door mechanically, pushed it open to a surge of dust and must, gestured for her to step inside.

There was no hesitation in her.

She walked over the threshold, and it was like another hidden barrier had been crossed; his heart involuntarily skipped a beat as he stepped in behind her, switched on the lights, and locked the door methodically behind him – locks and bolts and chains that were designed to buy him some time if he was ever traced here.

It was only a few moments that seemed to last forever before he was done, and when he turned he saw that she was standing in the middle of the tiny room, taking in her surroundings, holding her aching arm awkwardly at her side.

It was a while since he had been here, and the place was in less than great shape, but that, of course, had never been its purpose. He glanced over at the mattress up by the wall with dissatisfaction – this was hardly an appropriate place for a seduction, but—

 _Dis ain't just about sex_ , he reminded himself sternly.

And:

 _All right, so what is it about den, LeBeau?_

He looked at her with a breath in his mouth, stared at the tautness of her arm at her side.

 _Her arm. You gotta see t'dat first._

Yes. That was exactly what he had to do.

He walked towards her then and placed his hands on her shoulders, said softly, quietly: "Take a seat. I'll be back in a minute."

He walked to the bathroom, and it was only when he was there that he paused.

He leaned against the sink with both hands and breathed deep.

His heart was crashing in his chest, his brain was racing a thousand miles a minute, and this pause, this moment, was his attempt to still the whirling in his mind, the tortured train of reason that was consuming him. There was a reason he never slept with inexperienced women and this was it. The practicalities, the second guessing. The care, the attentiveness required. The _thought_. The only thing he ever wanted from sex was the rush, the high, the electricity. Switch your mind off, let your body take over. The tumble of limbs and the mindlessness of pleasure and the oblivion of release. Not tenderness. Not intimacy. Those were the things he _never_ wanted.

But he wanted _her_ more than he didn't want the responsibility of being her first time.

And anyway, what if this _wasn't_ her first time? What if he'd misread all the signals she was sending him?

His teeth tugged at his lower lip.

The idea of it made the pit of his stomach churn painfully, pleasurably.

The idea of her naked and in the arms of some nameless, faceless guy.

The idea of her _fucking_.

He let his mind meander lasciviously over it for a few moments – all the fantasies he'd ever played out in the time he'd known her, the nights spent at the mansion agonising over how her body must feel, must taste; what it would be to sink inside her and, and… …

The guy wasn't nameless or faceless. It was _him_.

Him and her and all the fantasies he'd buried deep… And even then he'd known that the woman she'd been in his fantasies wasn't the _real_ her.

Just like he knew all those fantasies wouldn't be the real thing _now_.

He licked his lips slowly and let out a long, shaky breath.

He prepared himself for it. Awkwardness, uncertainty, embarrassment.

He avoided questioning why the hell he still wanted it despite all that.

He opened the medicine cabinet, disrupting his reflection, took out the first aid kit. He purposely ignored his face when he shut the mirrored doors again, washed his hands carefully, turned away. He walked back into the room and stopped, briefly, in the doorway.

She was still there, sitting on the mattress, her eyes taking in her surroundings slowly, her attitude still tense. Again his stomach roiled and he moved again, ignoring it as best he could. He slipped the trench coat off his shoulders and threw it on the dusty armchair to the side.

When he threw the first aid kit on the mattress beside her his eyes met hers, and again he saw it, right there, flickering bright.

 _She wants dis_.

He had the sudden urge to just ditch all this bullshit and give into the insistent press of his lust. To just press her back into the bed and _fuck_ her now. The idea of what he could do to her, what he _would_ do to her, licked tantalisingly at the edge of his consciousness, and he rolled up his sleeves, his heartbeat soaring again.

 _Slow de fuck down, LeBeau…_

He sat down next to her, trying desperately to derail this dangerous line of thought.

 _Dis first. Dat later…_

Because there was every fucking chance that if he tried anything on now, she'd just push him away like she'd down so many times before back at the mansion.

He swallowed down his impatience. Instead he got to work removing the blood-soaked bandage from her arm, carefully unworking the knots so that he wouldn't jar the wound any more than he had to. She was quiet, motionless, letting him do what he had to, making no complaint – but she didn't need her voice, didn't even need her body to speak to him. What he felt from her was something intangible but just as visceral as if she had spoken. Whatever it was it was coming off her in waves, it was bathing him in its static, it was making his stomach lurch with roiling anticipation. There was only one name he could put to it, and it was _chemistry_. He was an expert at reading it – always had been. This was nothing different. There had _always_ been chemistry between them, right down from the first moment they'd laid eyes upon one another; but it was a chemical reaction that had never been brought to its conclusion because whatever it was between them had never been able to be consummated.

Two years down the line and he was sitting here in this dingy little room he barely used, and barely a thing had changed since then.

The chemistry was still there.

The only thing that was different was that now they were both able to bring the chain reaction to its ultimate conclusion.

 _Merde_.

He willed himself not to think about it with an effort.

The bandage was free and he pulled it away gently, leaning over to throw it into the nearby wastebasket before inspecting the wound carefully.

The tear in her sleeve was a thin slit, but he could see through the rip that the wound itself was fairly deep.

No way was he going to be able to deal with it like this.

He touched her elbow gently, said with a calmness he did not feel: "I'm jus' gonna undo dis a li'l bit… get your arm out so's I can deal wit' it."

Instinctively he went for the zipper of her bodysuit and she tensed visibly; he paused, re-evaluated.

"D'you mind?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head no.

She shook it when he wished that she would speak, because she hadn't spoken since she'd got here.

Nevertheless he tugged the zipper down, trying not to make this sexual when something about it inherently was and he knew it. He _felt_ it as he slowly bared her skin to him, the smooth, creamy swell of her breasts, the soft, taut expanse of her midriff, the delicate dip of her navel. It was only when he'd undone the bodysuit all the way down to her waist that he stopped. He'd never seen this much of her skin exposed to him, and it was impossible to ignore it; even less when he reached up with both hands to peel the bodysuit back off her shoulders, still painfully careful not to touch her skin.

And all the while she was still silent, even as she helped him to shrug the sleeves inch by excruciating inch down her arms, her only concession to pain a momentary gritting of her teeth as the unyielding leather grazed over her raw and open wound.

He forced himself to focus on _that_.

Looking aside, he drew the first aid kit to him, unzipped it. He took out sutures, antiseptic spray, fresh bandages, efficient, methodical, practised. He put on that same veneer of control he always wore when his emotions were really a seething mess beneath that cool, calm exterior. And when everything was laid out on the mattress beside him, he paused. He remembered to breathe.

When he finally reached out and touched her bare elbow, there was a part of him that had expected to be knocked flat. That had expected any of the things he had imagined would happen when her powers took effect. A sharp pull, a fall into darkness. A tunnelling into some cold, dark place from which he might never return at all.

He expected this to have all been some horrible lie, some terrible trap.

Some fucked up joke, or a dream he'd wake up from.

But it wasn't; and none of the things he'd been expecting happened.

When he touched her skin she felt like a woman. Smooth and warm and soft.

He watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, and he slammed a mental fist right down onto the tail end of his desire.

He concentrated on treating her wound.

He tried not to think about the fact that he was really, _finally_ touching her.

And when that failed, he touched her as lightly and unobtrusively as he could. Just the pads of his fingers. Nothing more. Just the very tips. No more than was necessary. No more than was needed… When all he needed right now was her.

Two years had passed, two years in which he'd thought her dead – all negated, all wiped clean.

He was right back where he'd been the last time he'd seen her, wanting, needing, lusting, fantasising, touching her with every part of his mind in every single way he knew how, and he could feel it right now, skimming right there under the surface, surging like the tide beneath this dam he'd built around himself and it was cracking, splintering, breaking, he could feel it, he could _feel_ it… …

He'd finished.

His hands were shaking, actually shaking, as he packed the supplies back into the first aid kit and laid it aside.

And when he was done, he hovered there, uncertain.

She hadn't said a thing, hadn't made a move, since she'd first sat here.

Even now she was sitting there beside him, not looking at him, not saying anything; but he could see the way she was breathing, deep, quick… And she hadn't made a move to put her bodysuit back on again.

She was there, naked down to her waist but for her bra, the dark shadow of her nipples just visible under the plain, white cotton, and longing took him like it hadn't taken him in _years_ , and… … His mouth was dry, his heart hammering in his mouth.

And still she didn't make a move to dress herself.

It was an invitation, a door thrown open wide, and he didn't talk himself out of it, he responded the way he always did when such an offer was extended to him. Before he could backtrack, before he could compute a fucking thing, he was reaching out for her, he was brushing the hair from her shoulder, the tips of his fingers tracing the finely sculpted curve of her buttercream skin, traversing the sheer cliff down to her back, the smooth ridge of her shoulder blade, and he felt the finest of tremors pass through her, a shudder he could instinctively tell was of pleasure.

He had, after all, touched dozens of women in this way.

He was an expert in their body language, in all the myriad signals they would give without even knowing.

There wasn't a woman he had touched who had said _no_ to those touches, and Rogue wasn't any different from any of them in that respect.

But she _was_ different.

As he charted the length of her spine with his barely-there caress, he marvelled at the fact that there wasn't a single other person who'd touched her in this way before. That he was the first to know what it was to have her under his fingertips, the first to navigate this uncharted territory. After all this time, after all this wanting. After the longest time thinking she was dead.

He'd been with many women. Gorgeous women, beautiful women, to-die-for women.

Those were just words.

Words people said a lot, used a lot, flung around a lot.

But none of those women had been like her, and he couldn't explain it.

None of them had possessed what _she_ did.

It was this effortless, uncomplicated sensuality, this unconscious seduction that came off of every movement she made, every breath that she took, that ran just beneath the surface of skin as soft as silk, pale as marble, delicate as lily petals. She was beautiful, breathtakingly sexy in a way he'd never encountered before or since the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. It captivated him, hounded him, kept him questing for more. It inspired a depth of passion he hadn't known existed.

His fingers had run the entire length of her back, and he paused there, realising he'd hardly been breathing. He waited for a reaction, his hand on her skin, unable to break contact. He couldn't bear not to touch her. His thumb caressed the small of her back and _that_ was when she made a sound.

He wasn't even sure if she was aware that she had made it, but he knew that sound. Not a moan, not a sigh, not a whimper, but somehow all of those at once. A sound of _need_. A _please_.

 _Okay._

 _Issa 'please', is it, Rogue? Den I give it to you. I won't say no to you, chere…_

He swept the palms of both hands up her back, laid them on each shoulder blade. She was breathing audibly now, but her body was rigid beneath his touch, like whatever she was feeling on the inside was racing ahead of her and she wasn't quite ready for it.

"You're so tense," he murmured, and he caressed her gently, trying to siphon all the tension out of her, trying to make her relax into his tender ministrations, trying to get her to bleed away all the anxiety he knew was working its way steadily through her…

 _Don't be scared, chere… You should enjoy dis… I'll show you how…_

And _fuck all dis foreplay,_ his inner voice hissed, and he swatted it away, he pushed aside the thing that said _you want her now and you know she wants you too_ , he answered it with a _don't'cha fuckin' dare scare her away now…_

She had relaxed against his hands now, and he chanced getting closer to her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, to smell the scent of her – vanilla and orange blossom, the same old scent she had always worn, sweetened by the heat of her skin. It was sensual, it was intoxicating, and he couldn't help it, he _had_ to taste it… He leaned in, he put his mouth against the elegant sinewy column of her neck and kissed her there, tasting the fragrance of her on his lips, feeling her impeccably smooth warmth on them and… … It was like a dam had suddenly broken in him. One kiss, and it was impossible for him to deny himself more. It was _criminal_ to deny himself more. She was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, and if he stopped now he didn't know if he could live with himself.

He closed his eyes and pressed another kiss against her neck, and then another; he pushed her hair out of the way, traced his lips to the nape of her neck, opened his mouth, licked her, tasted her, kissed his way across to the other side, nipped the fleshy crook of her shoulder, ran his tongue up the length of her throat, feathered kisses against the line of her jaw, dimly aware that she was breathing noisily now, open-mouthed, panting.

He opened his eyes, he looked down over her shoulder.

Her nipples were sharp and dark under the sheer cotton of her bra.

 _Oh fuck._

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

His felt his own arousal growing, twitch inside his pants.

He closed his eyes, tried to ride out a sensation that wouldn't go. He wrestled with himself. He wrestled when he knew it was pointless.

 _After all dis time… I deserve dis. I deserve to know what she feels like._

He opened his eyes again, his own breathing coming hard and heavy as he slid his finger round the back of her bra, felt the hooks and eyes give under his experienced manipulations, and he slipped the straps down over her arms, her taking over and shrugging the flimsy piece of material off; and he couldn't wait – his hands came up and captured her breasts greedily, the sharpness of her nipples grazing his roughened palms.

He put his mouth on her shoulder and watched them peek out from between his fingers, almost dazed at the fact that _this was happening…_

"Remy—" she gasped, bringing him back to his senses. He couldn't say a word, couldn't articulate a thing except an "Mmm?"

Her breath was coming as hard and fast as his was, and her voice wavered as she tried to speak to him, as she said, "Ah-Ah…"

Nothing more came, and there was such overwhelming emotion, such distress in her voice that it almost killed him to hear it.

"You want me t' stop?" he asked her.

 _Please don't say yes, chere…_

And another breath shuddered in her throat.

"Ah… _no_ … Ah just—"

He read shame, embarrassment in those words, in her abrupt pause. He didn't need her to finish her sentence. He knew exactly what it was she was trying to say.

"Dis is just your first time and you're scared."

He put it into words slowly, carefully, so that neither of them could be in any doubt. Like cards on the table, facing upwards, for all the world to see.

And when she swallowed, when she nodded, something sank in him just as much as something else soared.

It was confirmation of the thing he had already known, had already guessed at. Back at the mansion, the idea of _taking her virginity_ had been a quandary he'd played around with at the back of his mind – a frivolous dilemma, because he'd never _actually_ expected to face it head on. It was ironic that now, with this final barrier stripped away, it seemed trivial, almost unimportant.

The equation was simple, and it all boiled down to the fact that he wanted to have sex with her like nothing else, and now that he had tasted her, now that he _knew_ it was possible to have her in every way, he couldn't deny himself. Not when time and circumstance had forced restraint upon him for so long.

Because fate had led him right back to her.

It had presented her to him in every way he'd desired except gift-wrapped and tied up with a neat little bow.

He might never see her again.

Tomorrow she might be dead.

Tomorrow _he_ might be dead.

And if that was the case… He would regret it if he let this moment pass. He would regret not knowing what it was like to have her.

He scooted round to face her, and this time he couldn't avoid her gaze. Green eyes locked onto his, hitting him like a punch to the gut, speaking of all the things that had happened to her since the fall of the mansion, things he would have asked about in any other time or place, any other present, past or future. Not here. Her cheeks were pink, her lips plump with arousal. He had never seen anything in his life that was as beautiful as her. _Anything_. He dropped his eyes and feasted his gaze on her exposed flesh. He reached out and touched it. Every line and curve so perfectly realised. A landscape that could not be matched. She was something to be adored, to be worshipped. And he would; _Dieu_ , he knew he would.

He would worship that body with his own, if only for a few selfish hours.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured with hushed reverence, his fingers traversing her collarbone, up her neck, stroking her jawline… Her smoky gaze pinned his again, open, earnest, honest – and he found he couldn't look away, nor did he want to… And he knew, he just knew… he couldn't just _take_ this from her. She _had_ to want this too.

He leaned forward until his forehead almost pressed against hers, and still he held her eyes as he told her softly, sincerely: "I won't hurt you, chere… I'd never hurt you, not then, not now… Tell me you want dis and I promise I'll be gentle… I promise I'll take dis slow…"

She opened her mouth to answer, yet no sound came out.

He needed no answer though, not in the way she'd attempted to give it – when he looked in her eyes he knew exactly what it was she had meant to say, that her answer had been _yes_.

He didn't waste a moment more.

He leaned forward, slow, measured, guided as much by his own apprehension as he imagined would be her own; and when she did not flinch he pressed his lips up against her parted ones, feeling for the first time their warmth, their texture without a single barrier between them… And he _couldn't_ go any faster, not even if his now raging libido demanded it – he wanted to savour this moment, this moment he'd hungered for for longer than he could remember. He opened his mouth against hers and felt her breathe even as he did; slowly, tremulously; he slid his palm into her hair, drawing her closer, gathering her lips against the slow crush of his kiss, feeling her reciprocate, feeling the pressure of her own lips, slow but not uncertain, shy but not unsure – and it was a greater aphrodisiac than he could ever have imagined, this, their first kiss – her inexperience, her honesty, her passion.

He tilted his head, coming in from the opposite angle, and she matched him instinctively, her arms coming up round his back at the same moment, her tongue meeting his without having to be coaxed, and _god_ , he was kissing her kissing her kissing her, deep and greedy and passionate, matching all his expectations and more, and all those years, all those wasted years of frustration and hunger and loneliness were melting, spiralling down into a whirlpool of pure, unadulterated _her_ … …

And she made that sound again, that half-whimper, half-moan, dragging him up from the depths of his traitorous, heartfelt thoughts.

The sound was a prompt, a demand, a surrender; an invitation, a give and a take. He heeded its call without thinking. Impatiently, he nudged her back onto the mattress with his body, kissing her with an almost insatiable hunger now that he knew for certain that her inexperience did not necessarily translate into awkwardness or hesitation or any lack of passion.

When he paused to break their kiss it was only to sit up and pull his shirt up and over his head, and no sooner had he thrown it aside than her hands came up against his torso, her fingers marking the contours of him with an almost ravenous intensity, and he knew then how much she had wanted this too, and for how long – that, like all those nights he'd spent at the mansion fantasising about this, _she_ had been thinking the same things too.

The realisation spurred him on, reassured him that she would not say no to this, which, up to now, he had feared would come at any second. He leaned in again and kissed the underside her mouth, smiling when he felt her move to recapture his lips, saying before she could do so, "If dere's anyt'ing you're uncomfortable wit', tell me when t' stop…"

Again she said nothing, but her nod was enough; he didn't waste a moment more, moving downward to taste the curves of her breasts, unzipping the rest of the bodysuit as he did so, stripping it away from her, taking her panties with it, and _fuck_ , she was naked, gloriously, flawlessly naked, more breathtakingly beautiful than anything he could have imagined; and he covered her in kisses because there was nothing else on this fucked up earth that he truly believed deserved it, not then, and definitely not now.

She was panting hard as he worked his way downwards, ignoring the press of his own arousal as he neared her own – the scent of her was achingly intoxicating. It was almost impossible to ignore, and he was quite prepared to lick her into earth-shattering submission, to pleasure her until she came in a mind-numbing shower of stars; but before he could, before he could lay his mouth on her, he heard her say his name, soft, insistent, and he knew she wasn't ready, that this was all too fast, too soon… …

But even when he obeyed her summons, even when he drew her back into his kiss, he couldn't help it, he couldn't help but reach out and touch her, couldn't help sliding his finger into her soft and willing flesh, finding her slick and wet and hot; and when his thumb found her clitoris she moaned against his kiss, her pelvis bucking to greet his touch in a movement that was as primal and instinctual as the earth and the stars themselves.

It was almost more than he could bear.

It was a long time since sex had been anything meaningful to him, since it had been anything but empty sensation and the welcome headrush of momentary release.

This though….

It was like his first fucking time again, when everything had been new and exciting and every touch had been a hormone-fuelled expression of everlasting lust.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been _this_ fucking hard, but his erection was pushing uncomfortably against the inside of his pants and _Jesus H. Christ_ , he needed it he needed it he needed it, he needed to be inside her soon otherwise…

 _Fuck_.

He unzipped his pants, he got out of his boxers and no sooner had he done so than her hands were on him all hot and greedy and he let out a strangled cry at the unexpected confidence of her touch: he thought he would come right there and then.

He caught her wrist in his grasp.

Levelled her gaze with his own.

 _Jesus Christ,_ did she know what she _did_ to him?

" _Don't_ ," he breathed, and she bit her lower lip, her tongue coming up to push against her teeth in an expression that told him that stopping was the _last_ thing she wanted to do; and again the lust surged in him, this knowledge that she wanted him as much as he wanted her a painful aphrodisiac in and of itself.

She acquiesced, the fire in those gorgeous green eyes dampening somewhat, and, satisfied of her cooperation – _at least for now_ – he turned aside, remembering instinctively _condoms_ , because he was pretty sure she didn't have any on her or that she was on protection either.

There was one in the back pocket of his pants and he slid it on himself because he couldn't bear to have her hands on him again and he knew that if she touched him the way she wanted to this definitely wouldn't end the way he planned.

He settled in against her again, propping himself up on an elbow to look down into her face, and she put an arm up over his shoulder, looked up at him with this look of mingled fear and mettle, this look she'd worn back at the mansion when she'd been pissed at him, this expression of laying down a challenge, a challenge that she was nevertheless scared to meet.

And it occurred to him – if this was any other time, any other place, this would've been different.

All the push and the pull of their time at the Xavier mansion had taught them a playful brashness that had given them illusion that they had had all the time in the world to play out their pretence at a relationship. If this had been then there would have been the potential – perhaps the promise – of something more, something that now seemed out of place. All they had left was the desperation of this world, this war-torn present. A world where tomorrow, where the next night, might never even come. Where relationships were measured in hours and days, not months, not years.

So they would take what they could.

They would count themselves lucky.

He looked into those beautiful, brazen eyes and for a brief moment he wished that this _had been_ another time and another place. That there was the chance that there could be something stable, something more.

It was a frightening thought, and it was over almost as soon as it had come.

That look in her eyes was still there and he reached out, ran a thumb tenderly over the line of her cheekbone, sought to reassure her.

She was honest with him. She always had been.

What he wanted, now more than ever, was to meet that sincerity with his own.

"Dis may hurt," he told her softly.

She nodded, that look still in her eyes…

"I'll be as gentle as I can."

And this time the look in her eyes softened; she opened her mouth and murmured:

"Ah know."

He needed no other prompt from her.

He moved forward and almost at once he was nudging inside of her, measured, cautious, gauging her expression for any sign of distress. The slowness was almost tortuous, and he had to bite his tongue against the pleasurable agony of it . In his fantasies he'd sure as hell never factored in anything like this – and when she gasped, when she clamped her teeth into her bottom lip, he froze, the sweat standing out on his forehead.

"Do you… Is it…?" he whispered; and she placed a hand on his backside, whispered back, "Don't stop."

He didn't.

He moved forward again, this time with more purpose, pushing deeper into her with an inarticulate moan of pleasure, torn between the compulsion for tenderness and the base urge to just have his shameless way with her.

He looked at her again, saw pain in her eyes, felt her tense against him slightly. He licked his lips, and again, he re-evaluated. Gently he hooked her inner thigh, hiked her leg wider open. He rearranged himself slowly, carefully, slid a thumb right in over her clitoris again. The hiss that left her lips was one of pleasure and he took it as permission to start again – he pushed forward once more and this time he went as far as he could go.

 _God_.

His gaze locked onto hers again and he swallowed, hard.

He consciously pulled back the fires of his lust to a slow burn, murmured: "Okay?"

And she nodded, a husky "Hmmm-mmm" sounding in her throat.

His thumb was still circling her clitoris, and he kept it up as he drew back out of her gradually, all the way to the tip, and then right back in. It was horribly, achingly slow, the worst kind of torture – but after a couple of minutes of more of the same she began to move back against him in a clumsy, uncertain rhythm which made him hold back on his own quest for release. Another couple more minutes and she had found a more confident rhythm, and he removed his thumb from her, let her figure out what suited her best.

Whilst he was left there wondering what the hell to do and whether to just go ahead and _fuck_ her the way he knew he wanted to, she reached up and touched his cheek, slipped her palm round the back of his neck and drew him downward – he acquiesced, but only because it was _something_ – and when their mouths met, it was with a kiss so greedy, so passionate, that it made up for all her inexperience.

Something in the kiss seemed to drive her own confidence forward.

Her pace quickened and her legs came up to cradle his hips; her hands slipped over his backside, impelling him deeper into her. He complied without hesitation, thrusting into her with a speed that was far more to his liking, and she cried out, a half-wail of pure pleasure that made him grit his teeth and drive forward towards the conclusion he now knew was inevitable.

The slow burn he'd reduced his desire to flared back into a fiery conflagration that he couldn't hope to control.

He tried not to do it. Tried not to compare every woman he could remember sleeping with with _her_. With the taste of her mouth and the softness of her skin and the movement of her body as she rocked against him the way she was doing so now, matching him with perfectly aligned abandon.

Two years ago, back in the mansion, in a world before the war and the Hounds and the Sentinels, he had only been able to imagine what he was able to experience now.

Making love to the woman he knew only as Rogue.

 _Making love to her_.

The sound of her panting and the imprint of her nails and the strawberry crush of her lips.

His name on her breath, like a hymn.

The flawless fit of their bodies together.

The sexy, smoky defiance in her eyes, even as he pinned her wrists on the pillow beside her, even as he gave up all pretence of tenderness, even as he thrust as hard and deep into her as he could, as he _needed_ to be.

The way she continued to match him, despite everything.

And this wasn't like his fantasies. It wasn't anything like he'd imagined. It was real for a start. It was real flesh on flesh and skin on skin. It was the texture of her and the sound of her and the look in her eyes and all the little things he couldn't make up. It was the fact that he couldn't hold onto every meticulous detail of what it was like to be with her, that every breath he took was a mile away from the pleasure he'd experienced the moment before.

And her legs are wrapped round his hips, drawing him away from the intensity of his thoughts and deeper into her, and he leaned in, he kissed her, he kissed her and she kissed him, no shyness, no reticence, and she was moving against him in the most delicious way and _fuck_ , there wasn't anything in the world like her, nothing alive that could compare… …

She moaned into their kiss, the sexiest sound he'd ever heard; and he answered her with his own, releasing her wrists from his grasp, and as soon as he had her hands came up and over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, into his hair, hands on him like he'd never thought possible, her touch all at once sublime and profane.

Because everything was blurring, everything was tunnelling, and nothing mattered anymore except for the places their bodies connected, and it didn't matter, none of it did but this, the rhythm of their dance, the timbre of their song, the scent of their fragrance and the texture of their kisses and… …

His mind was a jangling torrent of inarticulate expletives and half-formed poetry as he finally came, the starburst of orgasm descending on him like the world ending and the world beginning, all the highs he'd ever known rolled into one, all the crushing defeats he'd ever borne being crumpled down and screwed up tight and tossed into the dust.

And somewhere, somehow, he imagined that this was _exactly_ what it must be like to be absorbed by her… …

He came out on the other side of it blinking, seeing stars, breathing like he'd never breathed before, lying in her arms with his heart crashing in his breast, its reckless drumming calmed only by the heady pulse of her own.

She was soft and warm, the silky planes of her body cradling him in some places, clinging to him all hot and sweat-soaked in others.

When he sucked in a breath, the only thing he tasted was her.

He had promised her gentleness; but somehow, at some point, it had become superfluous, unnecessary. Still, it unnerved him. This selfishness. This loss of control.

He pushed away from her slightly, and their gazes locked instinctively. They lay there a few moments, unable to break eye contact, breathing hard, trembling in one another's arms, wordless. For a split second her eyes flickered downward, to where their bodies were still joined; and when her eyes met his again there was this look on her face, the expression of a woman who'd expected to wake up from a dream only to find that it had all been real. She stared at him a long while, her fingers coming up to touch the stubble on his cheek, on his jaw, looking like she was going to say something but didn't know how or what.

He was glad of that.

There was a horrible sense of confusion pricking at him, and the more distractions he had that didn't involve formulating a sentence the better.

Her gaze ran the length of his lips, her eyelashes grazing her cheeks, and he thought, unconsciously, almost impulsively, _there's not'ing in de world as beautiful as her, not'ing in de world I've ever seen dat can compare… …_

And this pause, this heartfelt moment of spontaneous intimacy between them… it passed.

Her palm slid round the back of his neck and she moved forward, and so did he, and when they recaptured one another's mouths there was no distraction, no diversion so passionate or so fitting as this.

-oOo-

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Marvel's. Not mine.

 **Rating:** Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

 **Author note:** And this finally concludes Gambit's side of the story. Hope it was worth it (and lifts up your Monday)!

My next story will probably be my new Romy fic, so watch this space! :)

Thanks again to all my readers, reviewers and followers, and also to my wonderful beta, **jpraner**.

x

-oOo-

* * *

 **Slow Burn**

She slept.

He watched her sleep, this ghost from his past, this beautiful apparition made of blood and bones and flesh.

In the pallid colour of the night she looked more ghostly now than ever, but there was no mistaking it. She was real, and if he pinched himself now he wouldn't wake up.

He should have been elated right now. Happy. Because despite how shitty life could be, fate had just proved to him that sometimes dreams actually _do_ come true. And how was he supposed to let go of the dream when it was finally his after so damn long? When the reality of it far outstripped every tawdry detail his rampant imagination could have come up with itself?

He frowned.

Dreams were dreams, and mostly they were bullshit. They ignored all the basic rules of logic that were inescapable.

Like the fact that he was an undercover operative doing shitty things and that breaking that cover was a complication he could well do without.

The truth was, he couldn't believe he was thinking about this. He couldn't believe that he was thinking about _something more_ when that would mean that their lives would have to intersect in ways that had the potential to bring unnecessary complications, ones he was sure she needed just as little as he did.

No – this could only be what sex with every other woman was. A one night stand. He had his own life. She had hers. They were on the underground, fighting for _the cause_ , the mutant cause – whatever _that_ was – and this was not the time for relationships. The fact of the matter was, tomorrow was going to be another day, and Sinny was expecting shit to be done. Sinny would _always_ expect shit to be done, and he figured that whoever was paying _her_ was always going to be expecting shit to be done too.

So, you have your fun. You play out the dream for a night, and then you get back to work. You take little stabs at the underbelly of this fucked up regime while you can.

You don't let a good fuck get in the way of business, and you sure as hell don't let _emotions_ get in the way unless you want to turn soft and stupid and wind up six foot under.

Her eyelids flickered.

Her lips were slightly parted in sleep, and he had this urge, this horrible urge, to kiss them.

 _They talk._

 _As a rule he rarely talks, but he can't help it this time._

 _He's curious. He wants to know everything about the past two years of her life, but he can't bring himself to ask her._

 _He'd thought she was dead. He's spent all those months thinking that there was no Rogue in this world, and it disturbs him to think that if he had known otherwise it would've made a difference. He can't ask her who she works for. He can't ask her what she's doing blowing up Sentinel parts factories. He can't ask her how she got out, or how she's still alive. He tells himself it doesn't matter. She's here. He can't ask for anything else, anything more. He's a man who has stolen priceless artefacts, who has taken all he has ever wanted from the world without even the pretence of regret._

 _But he can't bring himself to take even those basic truths from her._

 _He doesn't want to feel entitled to these parts of her life._

 _What he wants is a reason. A reason for the worthless hollowness of the last two years of his life._

 _"If I'd known…" he wants to tell her._

 _But if he had known she was still alive there a thousand things he wouldn't have contemplated or stooped to._

 _It's too late._

 _He is what he is already, just as she is what she is._

 _He's a soldier who's sold his soul to the devil, who's paid for his life with the death of others._

 _The X-Men had offered a promise of redemption. She had offered a promise of something he had lost with Belle._

 _And then they'd died. She'd died. They'd all died, and so had he._

 _He'd given up every hope then of ever being a man who had a life worth living._

 _He'd given himself over to a dead world, he'd become a dead man walking, no reason to live, no reason to die._

 _He watches her now._

 _The flicker of her eyelashes as she glances at him. The pattern of her fingers on his chest. The curve of her waist against the angular ridge of his hip. This is a taste of what could have been. Of a world he could have made had the X-Men – had the world itself – never fallen. Of a future where he'd never bartered with his soul. Never become this cold automaton, this faithless mercenary._

 _It's too late for him._

 _The only thing he has left to hope for is that what has abandoned him has not abandoned her._

 _That she still hopes, prays, feels, loves._

 _That all the things he can't get back are still hers._

 _He flirts with her. He banters. He touches her and he kisses her. He thanks a God he no longer believes in that he's been allowed this._

 _Her, in this bed that he's pretty sure she thinks he brings other women into, but that he never has._

 _In this bed where, not so very long ago, he had said a final goodbye to her, thinking she was dead._

 _The irony of this is not lost on him._

 _That she has died and been resurrected for him here._

 _He doesn't know her name. He doesn't know where she lives or who she works for. He doesn't know a fucking thing about her except for this._

 _And it is enough._

 _It is enough._

Remy took in a shaky breath.

It'd _have_ to be enough.

He'd made his decision.

Making this something more would bring about a shitload of fucking complications, and he didn't want to go meddling in her business. He certainly didn't want her meddling in _his_. And he didn't know _what_ she would think if she knew he was working for Sinister of all people, except that she wouldn't like it.

 _No, boy. You keep dis pure and simple. Sex is sex is sex. A one night stand is a one night stand. You wake up in de mornin', you leave dis at de door where it belongs._

He couldn't help it though. Couldn't help reaching out and tracing the line of her jaw, her chin, with the joint of his forefinger. Running his fingers down the slope of her breast. Her pallid skin glowing like alabaster in the moonlight. He couldn't help marking her in his mind before he knew he had to let go.

"Rogue," he murmured.

And she made no answer, so he turned over onto his side, he listened to her breathe, and somehow he slept.

-oOo-

The morning dawned cold and grey and he awoke to the sound of birds and the familiar feminine warmth of an arm slung across his waist.

He was momentarily confused, and it was only when he turned his head and saw her still sleeping there beside him that he remembered. Her hair was splayed out on the pillow, milky white on cinnamon coffee, chocolaty warm against the pale lustre of her skin.

 _Oh. Oh yeah_.

His heart twisted when he saw her in the daylight.

She was still the same as he'd always remembered her at the mansion, and yet… once again he was struck by how _different_ she seemed. It was this sadness that permeated her. He couldn't quite explain it.

He sat up, leant over her, planted both hands either side of her head and stared down into her face. He studied her, trying to work it out, trying to pinpoint where this difference in her came from. He traced the crescent of her eyelids, the slash of her cheekbone, the curve of her lips. The smooth, alabaster column of her neck, the ridge of her collarbone, the soft slope of her breasts.

A surge of desire took him and he swallowed it down with an effort.

His eyes flicked back to her face.

She was still sleeping, breathing lightly.

And he reached out and touched her face. Just the pads of his fingers, placed ever so softly, ever so delicately, on her cheekbone. His thumb slid a tentative inch over the warm, smooth skin there; and the barely-there caress was so distressingly close to being intimate that he drew his hand away without thinking; he got quickly out of bed.

He considered sneaking out, but instead he went for a shower, and when he came back out again a few minutes later, she was still asleep.

 _Well, fuck._

He watched her as he dressed.

He fought with the urge to wake her up and press her to him again. He was pretty sure she wouldn't say no.

 _But dat would be a fuckin' big mistake, LeBeau, and you know it._

Because the pleasure was last night. And what had happened last night was going to stay there.

No buts.

He was dressed.

Time to go.

He patted down his coat, made sure everything was there. His cards, his keys, his wallet. His phone.

He switched it on and checked it.

There was a message from Essex there, demanding a report on the job last night.

Well, that had been a fuck-up. Kind of. Not entirely.

 _I mean, how was I s'pposed to know Rogue was gon' come an' blow de place up while I was in de middle of a mission?_

He grimaced.

 _Pretty fuckin' awesome luck she did though. 'Cos, y'know. Last night got t' happen and it was fuckin'…_

What?

Awesome?

Amazing?

Incredible?

Perfect?

Mind-blowing?

 _Hm_.

There wasn't an adjective that appeared to fit.

He slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and looked back over his shoulder at her.

Still asleep, the comforter just about pulled up over her breasts, her eyes closed in silent, calm repose. Her bandaged arm flung up against the pillow, her open palm lying just inches away from those kissable lips.

He expelled a hot breath.

 _Merde_.

He didn't have the heart to leave.

Instead he went for one of his other pockets, pulled out the cigarette pack in there, shook one out, lit it up. He went to the window and threw it open, looked outside. All around him was nothing but stone grey concrete and powdery-coloured skies still lined with smoke, the head of a Sentinel or two in the distance.

He frowned as he watched them, pulling slowly on his cigarette.

There was still the sound of sirens on the horizon, and he was pretty sure that last night's Rogue-induced explosion wasn't going to die down any time soon. He tried not to wonder too hard who she was working for.

He'd nearly smoked the cigarette right down to the butt when he finally heard her stir behind him. She yawned, she stretched, she rolled over – she found he wasn't there.

Silence.

He was surprised to find that his heart was pounding painfully, and it was a betrayal in every way – it was a marker of a guilt he didn't want to feel.

"We should both be gettin' back," he announced quietly when she said nothing. "They'll be wonderin' where we are."

He didn't need to clarify who 'they' were. He knew it was the truth, and he knew that there was a 'they' somewhere in the background for her.

He wasn't sure what he had expected to happen next, but he definitely hadn't been expecting what _did_ happen. He heard the mattress creak as she got out of bed, and he figured she'd head straight for the bathroom and that he'd finally have a moment to make his escape; but the next moment she had crossed the room right over to stand beside him, wearing nothing but the grubby comforter tucked in under her armpit; and she put her arms about him.

His heart dropped right down into his stomach.

The feeling wasn't unpleasant at all.

She smelled glorious, a heady perfume of vanilla and orange blossom and sweat and sex that made his blood stir despite all the coldness he'd imposed on himself since he'd gotten up, and he swallowed hard, unable to get away from the scent of her, not even wanting to.

All it would take would be a deft flick of the wrist.

A single tug of that blanket and it would drop to the floor, and she'd be naked in his arms again and he could carry her right back into that bed and they could replay last night all over again, over and over and over and all day if they wanted to, he had time, he had time to kill before his next job and he couldn't think of anything better to do with it than spend it with her, figuring out a hundred more ways to fit inside that delicious body of hers and make it his own and—

 _Ugh. God. LeBeau. Stop._

But it was almost _impossible_ for him to stop, and even though he could push it all down with an effort, there was one thing he _couldn't_ do, and that was to walk away from her now, now when he needed to be able to most.

Instead he slipped an arm around her shoulder, accepting her embrace.

For a few moments he let himself relish it, as much as he was able to when the whole thing was so damn _wrong_.

"When will Ah see you again?" she whispered.

And there it was.

The question neither of them was supposed to ask, was supposed to _want_.

 _There won't be a next time, chere_ , he wanted to say, but again – he couldn't.

"I don't know," he said instead. Because he truly didn't.

Again there was that silence.

Growing, lengthening, demanding some resolution.

 _You just took her virginity, LeBeau,_ he told himself sternly. _You took her and you used her and now you're gonna just walk out dat door and not even say a fuckin'_ _word?_

He squinted at the growing sunshine, his heart pounding with a sickening pace.

 _She wanted dis. She wanted it. What de hell, it was just a mindless fuck_ _. You both wanted it. And it was good. It was fuckin' excellent. Now get outta dis fuckin' apartment before you do somet'in' stupid like fuck her again._

A breath surged through his lungs, his stomach churning painfully.

 _She wanted it, LeBeau._

 _She still wants it._

The sun coming up over the lonely skyscrapers…

 _So do you._

It was a horrible admission, and he pulled away from her, placed his hands on her shoulders, looked deep into her eyes, a look she met without balking. And it was this realisation, this tacit knowledge of a need – a greed – they _both_ shared, that made him hesitate. It made him stay.

 _Tell me you want it, chere,_ he thought desperately, intently _. Tell me right now, and I'll stay. Ask me not to go, and I won't._

He waited.

And she said nothing.

And the ship had sailed, the moment had passed, just like that.

He was left tongue-tied, confused, by his own inner confession.

"I haveta go," he said when nothing else would come out.

"Ah know," she whispered.

So quiet, so accepting. Her permission, and his cue to do exactly what he knew he was supposed to do.

 _Leave._

Leave.

He couldn't bear to do it without connecting with her once again. He moved to kiss her, but somehow it was too warm, too intimate, and instead he found himself pressing his face into her hair, hair that smelled of him and her and everything they had shared last night.

He breathed it in like he wasn't going to get another chance, like all the odds he knew were counted against their favour.

 _Leave_.

The word was like an echo in his mind.

He obeyed without consciously absorbing it, pulling away from her and moving to his backpack by the door. When he turned she was still there by the window, looking at him like she had the night before. A gaze like honey and molasses and so heartbreakingly beautiful, so heartbreakingly sad.

"Goodbye, Rogue," he murmured.

And, "goodbye," she whispered back, and he turned for the door.

 _Dis was wrong, LeBeau, what you did was wrong, ev'ryt'ing about last night a huge fuckin' mistake._

It wasn't what he believed, but it was the only way he could force himself to leave, to not look back.

She didn't call his name; she didn't say a word.

He hadn't a clue whether he would have gone back, even if she did.

Instead he closed the door behind him and walked away from her with his gut churning and his heartbeat racing and his body singing with the memory of last night. Because yesterday morning he'd woken up with his life a big, long fucking flatline; and today she'd done something to him, she'd kickstarted it again; and if that was a mistake it was the best mistake he'd ever made, and he was ready to want much, much more.

-oOo-

 _-END-_


End file.
